When we opened the door, the smell hit us like a punch to the face. It was disgusting AF. There was poop. Everywhere. It was on the walls, the windows, the bed, the dresser, the carpet. But the real kicker? Her feet. She had managed to work it right into her toenails! She was sitting there, totally unfazed, like she was the Picasso of poop art. Naturally, I screamed and gagged and ran around like a crazy person for a minute until I could mobilize and take control of the situation.

Cleaning up Poop Gate quickly turned into a full-on special ops mission, with my husband as the fearless “room extraction specialist” and me as the “child decontamination unit.” He suited up with gloves and cleaning supplies, diving straight into the battlefield, navigating the poop-covered walls, carpet, and furniture, trying to ignore his overwhelming feeling of horror and disgust. Meanwhile, I was on full decontamination duty, carefully scrubbing our foster daughter from head to toe after she’d somehow managed to cover herself in poop, like I was preparing her for a sanitation checkpoint rather than a bath. By the end, we could finally take a deep breath (without wanting to puke), and the room was (mostly) intact. Then I called Stanley Steemer.

After successfully surviving Poop Gate and emerging with only minor emotional scars, it became abundantly clear: it’s time to tackle potty training. If this is what we’re in for every time my foster daughter decides to get “creative” with her bodily functions, then it’s probably time to hang up the diapers and grab the potty seat. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not excited to start this journey. In fact, I’m dreading it. But it has to be better than the sequel to Poop Gate, right? So here’s to the next chapter in parenting: less poop on the walls and more in the potty. Bring it on… I guess.

My hope is that this blog may be helpful, or dare I say inspirational to someone out there. Anyone have their own Poop Gate stories? Please share!